Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [52]
Her hair was yellow as butter. Silver, with the radiance all round about it. It clasped her head like a shell. He began to wonder, and stopped himself. He said, ‘I have never heard anyone play so skilfully.’
She laid the lute slowly down, and straightened again. ‘And I have never seen a worse actor. So you understood all the words?’
‘So you didn’t mourn him long,’ Nicholas said.
Her back straightened. She sat without answering, studying him. Then she said, ‘Do you think I am offering love?’
There was a long pause. ‘No,’ he said.
‘No. I am offering this. Release. Relief. Oblivion. You need not take it.’
‘I wouldn’t take it,’ he said. He didn’t look at her hands.
There was a pause. ‘But?’ she said. She swept him from head to foot with her eyes, and then returned her gaze to his face. She was not smiling. She said, ‘But you need to receive it. So the blame would be mine. You betray nobody.’
‘I wouldn’t say that either,’ he said. ‘If you heard my friends: it is my lifetime’s interest, plotting.’
She said, ‘So, say it.’ She withdrew slowly and stood, always watching him. Her fingers, slipping down her own body, parted one by one the fine fragile clasps of her gown. The garment lingered and fell.
‘But I need to receive it,’ he said.
She stood in her chemise. Then, raising her arms, she drew the fine voile steadily over her head. She knelt, then lay on his bed. Her breasts, suspended, were oval. Her calves and thighs were perfect, as if moulded and grown from ripe peaches. Her head came to rest on his arm. He bent his wrist, and touched the tightly-bound cap of her hair. His hand stood away. She said, ‘Let me do it for you,’ and lifted herself and, sitting beside him, disengaged the ribbons and cords and unfolded her long, silken hair with her fingers.
It was yellow, not chestnut; and the breasts lifted below it were perfect spheres with unused nipples, soft as bruised fruit. She said, ‘Close your eyes. This is my profession, not yours.’
His hands sprang to grip her, smiting the breath from her lungs. He said, painfully smiling, ‘You think so?’
Chapter 9
ESCAPING CAME naturally to Nicholas, for it required youth, strength and agility and he had all of those, as well as the kind of mind that solved puzzles. It failed to solve this one. Someone, somewhere, knew very well what kind of animal they had lured to their trap, and nothing he did, from the time he recovered his health, enabled him to take over his ship, or to land.
He was prepared, if escaping, to abduct Primaflora, if only to preserve her from the perils of her own philosophy. He was equally prepared, if he got off alone, to return in some fashion and rescue her. He was not at all sure that she would thank him for either effort. He did not, of course, have her affection. He doubted if he had even her friendship. He felt responsible for her for other reasons. Perhaps even because of a look on her face, caught sometimes unguarded.
Extraordinary precautions were taken to secure them both. In port, they were locked in separate cabins. When sailing, they were each allowed on deck closely guarded, but never together. Primaflora’s servant attended her, and he was served, cheerfully enough, by the man in the rough leather jerkin. He cherished his moments under the sky, if only because he knew every quirk of the Doria, and could assess the wind and the sea, and judge the set of the sails, and set his hand on the sheets he had learned so swiftly to work in two dangerous voyages. He had no chance, however, to direct his ship now. He hardly glimpsed Michael Crackbene, and was never permitted to speak to him.
He could, if he wished, have dined daily in the great cabin with those three well-dressed seigneurs, his captors. They had expressed disappointment at his first refusal, but soon had ceased to send messages. He had no interest in Cyprus,